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Sandor awoke to the sound of a shrieking baby. It had been a while since he had this particular nightmare. The thought made him paw at the scars on his face. He brushed a heavy hand over his eyes, and turned to the fire, recalling his vision from beyond the wall in its ominous tendrils. It made the side of his face throb. The pain never forgotten – even now – after years of being bloodied and beaten – living and dead.
The shriek pierced through his reverie. Am I still dreaming?
Some dream, he thought. A weight shifted next to him and his eyes flew open.
He felt her more than saw her, then. Standing to put on a robe. Tired eyes full of love. He rolled to his back to watch her, stretching a large hand across the warmth she’d left behind.
Shrieks faded to cooing and contented sighs.
Little Bird. Her long auburn hair was spun into a braid, her skin as pale as the moon.
He sat up and smiled at the pair. He couldn’t remember when a shriek had brought him such comfort. And, with that, he beckoned to his wife and took the babe into his solid arms. A little pink worm of a thing, he’d once told her. Fucking brilliant, Sandor. But as much as he kicked himself and would always, she only laughed in response. It warmed his heart.
But it was nothing like this, he thought, bringing his burned lips to his daughter’s soft brow. Her dark curls gracing her temples. This is better.